07/09/2011

I’d had sex in cars, on floors, in the green grass. I’d had kinky sex, vanilla sex, drunk sex and stoned sex. I’d had sex with near strangers. I’d had sex with men I deeply loved. I’d had double-digit lovers in total. But I’d had never had sex in one of the most common configurations known to heterosexual copulators: the position known as “doggy style.”

It was the number one sexual position of my fantasies, which, admittedly, did not always include penetrative sex. But when they did, it was always from behind.

Each and every real-life attempt at sex from behind hurt. It hurt. Sex isn’t supposed to hurt, not in that way — burning, almost. Was I just not shaped the right way for this? Was he not shaped the right way? Were we in the wrong positions? Did we need a pillow? More lube? More alcohol?

I found other positions that worked, as you do, and dissuaded each new partner from trying doggy-style until I knew them well enough to make myself vulnerable with how much work I needed on it. It’s such a basic position that it shamed me to not be able to do it, to be so scared.

If I could distract him, I would. And if a guy really insisted, I’d tell him how it always hurt me, and I’d try for him, but if it hurt, I wanted to stop. And then when it did hurt, we would stop, and I’d be back at square one again. I accepted it as a fact of life. A fact of my sex life.

Then I met Adam. On a whim one night while kissing, I climbed into his lap so he could spank me. He had done nothing to indicate he liked to spank; he could have looked at me bug-eyed and confused. But he knew exactly what I wanted, how to hold me, what to say. He used his hand and later on, in his bedroom, a belt. And then I let Adam put his hands around my throat and squeeze. I let Adam slap me across the face, over and over again.

I had never let a man do those things before, not that anyone had asked. A key unlocked.

When Adam entered me from behind, it just slid in. He told me to put my face down on my mattress, to arch my ass up. No pain, no burning, no pressure: just me, face down on the mattress, with him behind me.

That’s how we f**ked and it became my favorite way to f**k. I was having the sex of my fantasies and it actually felt like the sex of my fantasies. Doggy-style didn’t scare me anymore; I didn’t believe any man was only going to hurt me.

One night after we played, I climbed up into Adam’s arms. “I trust you,” I told him. “I can be myself with you.”

“You can be yourself with me.”

Did he know what I really meant?

“You accept me for who I am sexually.”

“I accept you for who you are sexually,” he agreed.

I don’t know why over a dozen partners could not enter me from behind, not even sweet, sensitive lovers with whom I was truly making love. I didn’t know I needed my hair pulled, to be choked, to be slapped. But it’s pain I wanted fiercely and I trusted him to do it.

If I hadn’t climbed into Adam’s lap that one night, or let him beat me with a belt, or wrap his fingers around my neck, I would have done what I always did: sex in positions which were just OK. I don’t want to have sex in positions that are just OK anymore. I want to have sex like the ones in my fantasies.

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